


West as the Wind Blows

by Xela



Series: West [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You been starin' at preach's ass like it's candy, Dean.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	West as the Wind Blows

“It's gonna take us a few weeks to get you where you're going,” Dean tells the preacher.

“I appreciate your assistance,” Castiel says formally, offering his hand. Dean shakes it with a raised eyebrow.

“That's Dean,” Sam says, grabbing a bottle of rum before Dean hoards it, “he loves to _assist.”_ Sam ducks and a glass shatters against the wall above his head. Sam splits his bottle with Caleb and Ethan and watches Dean and his Preacher-man from across the room.

Preach sits like something's been up his ass, but Sam knows he's just saddle sore and city-soft. Man needs to toughen up if he's gonna survive out here. This land eats men alive and thinks nothing of it and Castiel...well Sam's never met anyone like him. Whether that means he's got a chance or not time will tell. For Dean's sake, Sam hopes so, 'cause they're three days in to getting him home and Dean's more gone than Sam's ever seen before.

***

Dean spends watch whittling. He's not sure what he's making yet, but he'll figure it out eventually. An Apsáalooke two-spirit once told him everything knows what it is, you just have to listen.

“You should be asleep,” Dean says into the night.

“I am having trouble sleeping tonight.” Castiel sits beside him. The only sound is the night around them and the scrape of Dean's knife against the wood. Dean doesn't give him a lecture about taking sleep where it's found; Preach'll figure that out soon enough his own self.

Dean glances over and notices the way Castiel shifts uncomfortably.

“You got saddle sores?” Dean asks gruffly. He's unaccustomed to this dance they're doing, but he figures he's muddling through just fine.

“No. However, I am working diligently on them.” Dean snorts, the humor unexpected, and glances over at Castiel. A small smile curls the corners of his mouth.

A week on the road has already changed him. He's looking like a cowboy wearing old castoffs and sensible shoes, caked with the dust of the road. Messy stubble over his jaw makes him look rakish, less greenhorn. Soon enough his legs'll bow out from all the riding and he'll sit a horse just as well as he can walk.

Dean smoothes his thumb over his carving. It thinks it's a person, albeit an odd one. His knife curls over the wood.

“The creature,” Castiel starts. Dean waits for him to continue. This isn't a conversation people have easily, and it's better to let it move in its own time. 'sides, Dean's known about these things since he was born, can't fathom how people stay so blind.

“I have dedicated my life to God,” Castiel starts again. “I have always had faith. The bible speaks of. Of demons. My faith saved me. And yet...I find myself questioning.” There's a lot of things Dean could say right now. He doesn't know anything about God. He's seen too much to be a believer, and the natives have ways of getting rid of spirits too. But he can't begrudge anyone their beliefs; it's hard enough surviving as it is.

Dean sets aside his whittling and sheaths his knife. When he turns Castiel's eyes are too close. His breath ghosts over Dean's lips. 

“What do you have faith in?” Castiel asks and waits, expectant. Dean blinks.

“Ask me again someday,” Dean says, and goes to wake second watch. For the first time in his life, he wants to say someone other than Sam.

***

Sam tips his hat politely to the man putting their horses up for the night. He grunts and spits at Sam's feet. Sam can't rightly blame the man; two teenage daughters and a band of ruffians riding into town would have him hostile too.

“Yer people are in the Hall. You know what's good fer you, you'll batten down and stay there,” the man warns him. He doesn't do anything threatening, but with a shotgun slung in the crook of his arm Sam hears him.

“You won't get any trouble from us,” Sam promises. _So long as we get none from you_ goes heard but unsaid. The man takes measure of Sam and nods curtly. He stomps into his house and slams the door. Angry father-yelling and higher-pitched teenaged whining follows Sam to the Town Hall, a building comprised of one large, empty room that serves as meeting place, church, saloon, inn, and any other purpose the townsfolk might need.

Dean has claimed the only table in the place, feet propped up on the tabletop and drinking moonshine. And staring intently across the room where their men and the preacher are huddled. Two weeks on the road and Castiel is just now being accepted.

“You watch him any more you'll set him on fire.” Sam shoves Dean's feet off the table and ignores his brother's glare.

“I don't stare.” Dean kicks at Sam's ankles for being a bitch and rocks his uneven chair onto its back legs. His gaze invariably wanders to where Castiel is being taught how to play Faro. He frowns every time someone lays down a bet, which is funny and—Sam will never admit this again—a little endearing.

“You been starin' at preach's ass like it's candy, Dean.” Sam pours Dean more moonshine and pulls his own share directly out of the jug.

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean mutters, but his ears are tinged pink. Sam, for his part, has been enjoying this immensely. Dean hasn't had to work to get laid in an age and a half and now he's gone and set his sites on an East coast fuddy-duddy uptight preacher.

Dean sits up straighter in his seat as the preacher headed their way, looking lost. 

“That game is unfathomable,” Castiel informs them. Sam snorts and keeps his comments to himself. Dean smirks and shoves a half-full glass of moonshine towards Castiel. The preacher looks at the drink like it might steal his tightly-guarded virtue. “Much of the terminology seems to be very bad French. I do not understand how the _paix_ and the _pont_ can be the same thing. And Jim keeps suggesting I try _cocking_ but his reasons are dubious at best.” Dean inhales his moonshine and Sam takes far too much pleasure pounding him on the back to clear his airways.

“You may want to save cocking for when you're feeling a little more...adventurous,” Sam advises.

“S'not a bad thing,” Dean says, sharp elbow digging into Sam's ribs. “It's got its own rewards, doesn't it, Sammy?” 

“You'd know better than me, Dean-o,” Sam fires back. Castiel's eyes dart back and forth between the two, the crinkle of his brow growing deeper. Seems to Sam Faro ain't the only thing Preacher Castiel finds _unfathomable._

“What is this town called?” Castiel asks, gingerly sniffing at the moonshine.

“Town,” Sam and Dean say together.

“That cannot be. Every place must have a name,” Castiel protests.

“It does,” Dean insists. “Town. As in 'I'm going to...' or 'did you blink and miss the...'” Castiel glares at Dean and takes a sip of his drink. Dean and Sam both duck instinctively and Castiel does not disappoint.

“That...” Castiel looks flummoxed and disgusted and like his tongue is numb. “That is an abomination!”

“Of the second best kind,” Dean agrees.

“What is the first kind?” Castiel asks. Sam laughs, a true belly-deep sound, and Dean leers so dirtily Castiel's blush disappears under the collar of his shirt. Sam catches the way Castiel looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye, gleaming with speculation.

***

Dean teaches Castiel how to fire a gun.

Castiel tries to protest, spouts off fancy words like 'peace' and 'forgiveness' and 'turn the other cheek.' Dean pops a Colt in his hand and tells him in the West peace is what you earn with a gun, forgiveness is an indulgence that gets you killed, and if you have another cheek to turn the other guy fucked up.

Watching Dean teach Castiel is better than a burlesque show, bodies pressed together, hands touching. Caleb and Ethan sneak off after five minutes, answer the whistles and ribs of their friends with rude gestures and foul language.

Sam rolls his eyes when Dean adjusts Castiel's perfectly acceptable stance, hands sliding over Preach's hips, pulling them back towards Dean.

Castiel fires and the recoil sends him stumbling back into Dean. The men all hoot and holler, but neither Castiel nor Dean hear it. Dean's got his hands hooked under Castiel's arms, holding him up. He's smiling softly, indulgently down at the man in his arms like Castiel's done something particularly amusing. And Castiel...he's bright as a cherry but smiling and not doing anything to get out of Dean's arms.

Dean sets him on his feet, brushes him off, and turns him around to start all over, hands low on Preach's hips.

Jesus, it's like watching two idiots shoot fish in a barrel and miss.

***

Castiel joins Dean on watch again.

Dean's not used to feeling time so acutely. They've got a lot of responsibilities, a lot of mistresses they have to pander to, but time doesn't really factor into their movements in an immediate kind of way. There're the seasons and you gotta find a place with food and shelter for winter, but you know when that's coming. Winter doesn't sneak up on you unless you're not paying attention and people who don't pay attention out here are dead anyways. But now, Dean's felt every moment of the past few weeks slipping through his fingers. They're close, so close to Castiel's stop, to the people he's promised his life to sight-unseen.

“Sam says we're close,” Castiel says, sitting down beside Dean. Says it like Dean didn't just think it and needs a reminder. Dean grunts and pulls out his carving. He thinks he's figured out what kind of person he's carving, but he's not totally sure so he still lets the wood guide him, lets the knife trail over the wood like a lover. 

He can feel Castiel watchin' him. It kind of burns.

“I...have found this trip informative. I would like to thank you for teaching me.” Dean snorts.

“Never thank a man for teachin' you how to survive,” Dean says, repeating words and sentiments he's heard all his life. “Just survive.” Castiel looks away then and the silence stretches around them, rife with things unspoken.

“What do you have faith in, Dean?” Castiel asks. Like it's the last chance he'll get. Like he's suddenly decided to take the whole _carpe diem_ shit to heart. Dean buries the knife in the loam beneath his feet. He needs to move, need to fight or fuck or do something. He needs _time._

“I got faith in nothing,” Dean says, and they both know it's a lie. Castiel frown like Dean's failed him. “Need to piss,” Dean says, and stalks off into the brush. He hears Castiel's footsteps stumble behind him.

“Dean...” Castiel protests, following. He touches Dean's shoulder and Dean snaps. He presses Castiel against a tree and kisses him, takes what he's wanted since he first saw the man. He pushes his body into Castiel's, full contact, lets his hands wander. Castiel moans into his mouth, fingers tangle in Dean's hair and Dean wants—

“I am engaged,” Castiel pants, resting his forehead against Dean's. He sounds broken and breathless. Dean slowly untangles his hands from Castiel's borrowed clothes, smoothes out the wrinkles he left there.

“You'll be home tomorrow,” Dean says, and walks away.

***

They ride Castiel into the center of the town. The townspeople scatter and watch them guardedly from windows. What passes for law stands in front of the jail with wary eyes, shotgun across his knees. Castiel dismounts and hands the reins to Sam, who watches him with hooded, disappointed eyes. Castiel looks at him for a moment, lost and searching for answers, but all Sam can do is shrug and jerk his head at Dean.

Castiel bids farewell to all the men in turn, who accept his thanks with small shrugs. At last he turns to Dean but doesn't know what to say. Dean, casually slouched over his horse, hat pulled low over his eyes, constantly scanning for trouble. It feels like an eternity before Dean looks down at him and extends his hand. Castiel takes it, grasps it tight, and gasps as something hard bites into his palm. He doesn't want to let go when Dean starts to pull away, but he doesn't have a choice. His fingers curl around something small and hard in the palm of his hand.

Dean nods once, with finality, and wheels his horse around. They disappear in a cloud of dust.

Castiel looks at Dean's parting gift. The block of wood has transformed into an angel with elegant wings and a featureless face. Castiel turns the carving over, notes the intricate pattern of the feathers and the detailing on the robe. On the bottom of the figurine, Dean's carved one word: Thursday. The angel from which Castiel takes his name, guardian of Thursday.

As people—his people, his flock—recognize him, call out to each other in shock, as a woman he has never met wraps her arms around him in joy, Castiel wonders if his faith will be enough.


End file.
